So, my good friend Jun Akiyama has asked me to write a column on the
Japanese language and how it has affected my study and understanding
of Budô. Considering Jun's own qualifications in that
department, I'm very flattered. As Ben Stein often says, "I shall do
my best."

My purpose in writing what I hope will become a series of articles is
not to teach anyone conversational Japanese, proper grammar, kanji
stroke order, or Tsugaru-ben [1]. There are many fine book and CD
sets available [2] to those ends (with the possible exception of
Tsugaru-ben). I aim, instead, to help the interested reader delve
into Japanese as a Budô-specific technical language. I am not a
Budô teacher, nor do I consider myself an expert on the Japanese
language. There are many people with educated, highly-qualified
opinions on these topics; I welcome their input and corrections.

After a week or so spent pondering what I should cover in my inaugural
article, the following thought occurred to me: "Why not just begin at
the beginning?" So, from the beginning I shall begin by posing the
following question: Why bother?

I hear things like this all the time when I bring up the topic of
learning Japanese in conjunction with the study of Budô. While
it is very true that one can study Budô quite fruitfully without
needing to learn Japanese, I believe some knowledge of the language
that shaped the thoughts of those who created one's particular art can
greatly enhance the experience.

A basic knowledge of the lexicon can serve not only as a mnemonic for
a particular technique, but can also facilitate training or
communicating with someone from another country. At higher levels, a
deeper pondering of the Japanese language and kanji (characters) can
help the Budôka explore layers of understanding of that which
those who came before have left behind.

Following, are two examples of how an understanding of Japanese has
helped me recently:

Case #1 ("new" insights): Last year, my friend and I were preparing
for a demonstration. One technique, mae otoshi, proved
especially difficult for us to accomplish correctly. It wasn't until
I really pondered the name of the technique, mae otoshi,
that the answer became clear to me. OTOSHI comes from the verb OTOSU,
which means "to drop (something); to allow (something) to fall." That
was the answer: I wasn't allowing my partner to fall.

In other words, he wasn't falling because I was holding him up. So,
rather than continue to do what I thought looked right, I listened to
what the language was trying to communicate. The effect was immediate
and dramatic; my overall technique changed almost instantly. Saru
mo ki kara ochiru [3].

Case #2 (communication): I recently joined an online Russian-language
Aikidô discussion group. While I had never attempted to talk
about Aikidô in Russian before, I ended up having much less
trouble than I'd expected because of my knowledge of basic Japanese
terminology. While the words may look and sound slightly different,
"sensei" is "sensei" and "dojo" is "dojo." (Although, my online
translator did try to define "dojo" as "Sambo school.")

Of course, the choice to (not) learn Japanese to whatever level you
(don't) want is still yours. If the glossary on AikiWeb
or in your student handbook is enough for you, then this series of
articles will likely hold no interest. But for those who hear a
calling to explore other levels of meaning, this column may be of
interest.

It is my sincere hope that we can learn something together through
this experiment. With that, I open the floor to you. What do you
want to discuss? Please contact me with any questions you may have; I
will use them to decide what to write in future columns.